Chapter 5: Nicked

Okay, this is crazy, she thought, backflipping onto the bed amidst a shower of seven-thousand dollar imported glass.  Three foes sprang simultaneously, all waving pointy nasties at her. A tall black one took a wild swing at her with an axe, missed, and swallowed a swift kick. Outside, the world had exploded into a nightmare of gunfire and screaming.

She wasn’t exactly dressed to kill. The sheer nightgown was meant to knock Giles off his game, but now it just seemed like a big ol’ fashion faux pas.  She figure she’d have a minute or so to slip into something deadlier should the need arise.

A ratty-haired chick in camouflage gear took a swipe at her with a very large broadsword, whoosing it a millimeter from Buffy’s throat.  Suddenly everybody’s weapons seemed a whole lot pointier. Made her want one.

She launched herself at Camo' Girl with a flying backfist, watched her flop onto the pile of papers at the Falcon’s feet.  Giles strained mightily, pushing backwards into the mattress frame as he wrestled with his restraints.  The third attacker, an elfin brunette, leapt directly over him, yelling and flinging around a pair of nunchuks.  While they tussled, the reinforcements began streaming in from the rear. Buffy counted seven in the corner of her eye.  Might as well have been a hundred.

Suddenly, the brunette’s legs buckled. Giles, freed from his ropes, had rammed her headfirst below the knees, sending her tumbling into a knot of silk bedsheets. Buffy located the chick’s face down in the tangle, introduced it to her bare heel.  Meanwhile, the new arrivals fanned out around the bed menacingly.  These moved more cautiously then the first bunch. Seemed to be veterans. She thought she even recognized a few.

  Buffy stood bewildered for a moment. She was cornered, unarmed and practically naked. Her arsenal was hidden behind a half dozen superhuman killers. A plan definitely seemed in order, but she was all out of ideas.

“So,” she said, batting her eyelashes. “Who’s next?”

Before anyone could volunteer, the south wall of the villa, rather rudely, exploded.

Several of them turned around just in time to get the smackdown from a familiar pair of shiny black fists.   The robot tore into the pack of girls with unnerving ferocity. They were no match for him.  It.  Whatever.

Three seconds and a whole bunch of zap-biff-pow later, and the enemy’s numbers were cut in half.  Seizing the moment, she made a dash for Xander’s old iron-buckled trunk. No time for being picky.  She snatched up the first thing she saw – a Spanish rapier the length of her arm – and made with the slashing and the dashing. Two girls fell under a pair of short strokes. The tin soldier took out the last one with a crunchy twist of the neck.  Domo Arigato, Mr. Roboto.

The two stood gaping at one another for a long moment. The bot didn’t seem to be breathing heavy - or at all, really. But it had a nervous energy about it now, the fingers twitching spastically at its sides. There was a noise like someone whistling into a microphone at close range when it spoke.

“We must go,” it creaked, a frog at the bottom of a well. “There are more outside. Lots.”

“Lots,” she repeated, dripping with sarcasm, and sweat.  Mostly sarcasm.

“Urm, uh….” it stammered.  “Yes. Multiple… multiple targets. In the, ah… Target. Zone. Beep boop.”

Her eyebrow shot up. “Oooookay?”

“I have a… err, uh transport. It’s not far from here. Human.  Boop."

“What about him?” She pointed at Giles, who looked to be visiting Sleepyland again.

Something like a low groan emitted from the bot’s head. It moved - begrudgingly, it seemed - to the side of the bed, tossed the Watcher over its shoulder. Outside the gunfire had died out. A horde of dark silhouettes were shifting into position less than twenty yards from the house.  Too many to fight on their own. Sadly, Buffy noticed the limp remains of Hector Emmanuel slumped next to the front tire of the hybrid. There was no sign of the man named Riley Finn anywhere.

“Is there another way out?”

In lieu of answering, Buffy made a beeline for the basement. The creature followed closely behind. The smell of burnt tar and gasoline rose in her nostrils once again, but this time with just a hint of something more pleasant underneath.   They flew down the stairs into the darkness of her wine cellar. Halfway down a long rack of Pinot Noir, Buffy paused to yank out a bottle of 1994 Colliers.

“No time for that, I think…” croaked the droid.

“Shh… gimme a second.”

How does this stupid thing work again? She frowned, grabbed another bottle, this time a ‘92 Savignet, then a ’99 Aukland Farms. Finally, the room filed with a din of shuffling wooden gears. A rack of wine twisted slowly sideways, revealing a steel-strutted tunnel that seemed to burrow directly through the hillside.

“This will get us past the front lines. How far away is this ‘transport’ of yours?”

“Half a mile east of the lake,” the robot belched. “That’s if no one’s nicked it yet.”

Something prickled in her chest. She glared at the dark, glassy face. “What did you just say?”

From upstairs, dozens of footsteps and the sounds of wood shattering. They weren’t as patient as she’d hoped. “No time,” the bot barked. “Have to move.”

The creature shoved her into the shaft, its icy paw coming dangerously close to below-the-belt. She darted down the cool, dark passageway, bare toes wincing on the sharp gravel. Her rapier was jangling in her hand. The lanterns strobe-lit a band of human blood along the blade.  The stranger kept pace with her. Just beneath the sound of clomping boots she could hear Giles’ ragged, uneven breath. Somewhere behind them, sharp teenage voices yelped excitedly. They’d found her escape hatch, but it was too late.

We’re gonna make it, she thought. Just a little farther.

Ahead, an orange dot of sunlight was getting steadily larger. She could make out the scruffy branches of the cespuglio waving in the October breeze. It felt right, running again, heart lodged firmly in her neck. It felt like old times. The dot was becoming a circle of light. A promise.

Then - just like that - the circle went black.

Like old times.

***

Bloody hell.

This wasn’t how he’d imagined it going at all. He’d known they were coming for her, sure. Angel had caught him up to speed the other night. The old poofter had the early line on just about everything these days, being a Senior Bloody Partner now n’all. He’d just assumed he’d have a stitch or so to work things out with the Slayer, come up with some type of game plan.

He might have even told her.  Maybe she would have even saved him the trouble for once and worked it out on her own.  But now, this. He could hear their psychotic battle cries, deadly little girl footsteps closing in from both ends.  Wouldn’t be long before they were on them.  This was going to be such a stupid death.  He knew a thing or two about those…

Just rip it off now, man. Show her your face. Tell her…something!

No.  In a few moments it wouldn’t matter anyway. They would be cut down by harpies in a sodding mine shaft.  Better the original way, the one where he saves her and the rest of the entire bloody universe. Yeah, that was a pretty good death.

He looked at her. God, she was magnificent, still a damned empress. Her perfect feline body stiffened under the little see-through number, sword arm dipping forward gracefully, like a duelist of the old world.

“Slayer,” he said.

“I know,” she said. For just a moment, he felt the world crumble. “We’re fucked,” she added.

“S’cuse me?”

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s just…what’s with the potty mouth all of the sudden?”

She squinted at him. “Okay, you are now officially the weirdest robot I’ve ever met. And believe me, I’ve met a few…”

Oh-oh.  Careful, old boy.

She shook her head. “So what am I supposed to call you, anyway?” He didn’t answer. The voices were almost upon them now, wailing insults and dark threats. “Get ready for hell, bitch,” one shrieked. Buffy's eyes sank. The sword followed.

She seemed to be ashamed of something. The Watcher’s condition, he guessed – she’d roughed him up something fierce. Or maybe it was the fact that she’d just led them all into a damned death trap. The soot from the cavern had muddied her face, and it made the woman’s huge, angelic eyes show that much more brightly. She’d buggered it up, sure enough, but he could feel himself ripping in half to see her like this, giving up. He wanted very badly to touch her, one last time.

No!  Think, damn you. Make a bloody PLAN for once in your life!

The tunnel was a tight fit, maybe five feet across at the widest. The girls could only come at them two, perhaps three at a time from either direction. And then, it would be awkward for them. Slayers were no Roman legionnaires.  They were trained for single combat, lone killers. Fighting back to back, they might have a chance.  Take it slow an’ methodical.   Use the darkness, draw them close.  Send them low patiently, one by one.  Yeah that was a good an’ proper plan.

He propped the Watcher against the wall. “Okay. Here’s what we do," he said. "We make a break for it.  Won’t be expecting it head-on like that.” He shoved her roughly behind him. “Just watch your back, and if you see an opening, run like all hell. I’ll catch up when I can.” He felt her stiffen.

“No!” she said. “No, we’re not leaving him.”

“I don’t think they want him.”

“You don’t think?” He heard her voice break. Her eyes were dancing. The Slayer was coming off her hinges.

Damn. Impossible woman.

He smashed out the nearest lantern with a fist. Then another. The small bubble of blackness felt comforting. Somewhere under the mask, he could feel his game face coming on. The world always became so crisp in the dark.

“Right.  You carry Watcher. Stay close.”

He forged ahead, killing every lamp along the way. The Sun Helmet dimmed his finer senses considerably, but he could still see perfectly well without light. He zeroed in on the bobbing shapes in the distance. There were ten of them, advancing two-by-two, each girl looking lightly armed and just a tiny bit terrified. He cocked his head and howled, the mask’s microphone twisting the sound into a blood-curdling roar of feedback. In the next second, all but one of them had turned to run.

Result!  Well done, lad…

He reached back for Buffy’s hand.  The last remaining Slayer seemed to be kneeling down, about twenty yards out.  She was fishing something small and metal out of her jacket. He felt his fangs slide out. She would be easy.

He was on the verge of making a dash at her when the bird suddenly tossed her bauble, sending it clinking up the rough walls of the cave towards them.

No.

The thing rolled to a stop a few inches from his heel. He could hear the dry sizzle underneath its cool nickel-plated shell. Moving faster then he thought possible, he gave Buffy a hard shove, launching her and the Watcher a dozen feet downstream. 

Then he flopped down on the grenade, smothering it to his chest.

The last thing he saw was the Watcher, his eyes suddenly wide and white in the darkness. The old man was staring directly at him, rubbing his earlobe very, very gently.

The last thing he thought was:

Oh bugger. This is really going to hurt…

***

It was just so stupid.

The apartment was cramped, in the first place, what with all of Reginald’s big stupid exercise machines and big stupid Reginald. And now Reginald got a big stupid dog and it was hogging the couch on the one night of the whole week when Andrew wanted to watch the big stupid TV. The furry monster just sat there, hating him with its beady little eyes. It didn’t even pant. What kind of a dog doesn’t pant?

A stupid one, that’s what kind.

Reaching out one hand, he attempted to will it off the sofa. This is not the couch you’re looking for, he thought serenely. Move along. But even that didn’t work very well. The dog just made a little grrrr sound through it’s teeth, which was enough to make Spock and Bones hop up onto the kitchen counter and start hissing like a couple of big babies. Babies who hiss. And are cats.

But Andrew wasn’t scared. He’d seen plenty of scarier things in his day. Plent. Ty. Nevertheless, his shaggy new roommate seemed to have won this particular battle. The epic fifteen-hour Star Wars marathon would have to be postponed, perhaps until such time as he could afford the new deluxe Blu-Ray boxed set of the original trilogy. The one that deletes that totally lame Jabba the Hut part. And changes the Greedo death scene back to the original version, the one where Han shot first. Which, as any true fan knows: He. Most. Certainly. Did.

He made a dignified retreat to his bedroom, tucking Spock and Bones under each arm as he went. Defiantly, he popped in his special anniversary edition of the John Williams soundtrack and cranked it up to eleven, just to remind the pooch who was the real boss around there.  Meaning Andrew.  Not John Williams.  Andrew was the real boss around there, in case that wasn’t crystal clear as a chandelier.  Duh.

As the rousing anthem of the Imperial March kicked in, he reflected on his own rich heritage as a bad guy. Those were simpler times, plotting and rubbing his hands together menacingly and… well, mostly those two things. But he did summon a demon who looked like a giant lizard man. And he killed somebody once. That was pretty badass.

But, alas, those days are at an end, he thought. For I have surrendered myself to the eternal service of the good and the lawful.

As if on cue, the music swooned into the love theme from The Empire Strikes Back. Tears welled up in his eyes as he thought of Han Solo standing so courageously over the carbonite chamber, and how Leia kissed him so sweetly just before he descended into the freezing darkness below. Except that Buffy was Leia and Spike was Han. And Andrew was Chewbacca. He didn’t know who C-3PO was, since the android was still strapped to his backpack.

He was just about to sit down at his laptop and write a short fic about it when the lights went out. At first, he figured Reginald had just forgotten to pay the stupid electric bill again. But if that was true, then why was the music still playing? And why could he see that man lying down a few feet away?

He was dressed in some kind of black suit of armor. It was very leathery and Sci-Fi channel-ish, with tiny little spikes and ridges and circuit-looking things all over it. He was wearing some kind of shiny black space helmet too.  It was hard to make out what he was doing down there on the floor. The guy seemed to be in some sort of a long dark tunnel. It made Andrew a little dizzy when he realized that he was in the tunnel too, sort of. From the angle he was seeing, it seemed like Andrew was buried up to his head. Or that maybe he was only six inches tall. Either way, it didn’t feel right. For one thing, his feet still seemed to be touching the bedroom carpet. For another thing, if he was six inches tall, how come his hand was so big? And old?

But it wasn’t his hand. He couldn’t control it, and he only wished he had a wristwatch that cool. It was like he was looking out of someone else’s eyes. A second hand came up and tapped insistently on the watch’s face.

What are you trying to say, gentle Old Man Hand, he thought. Do you want me to tell you the time? He suddenly wished the hand would just go away. He really wanted to look at that cool robot guy again.

Then suddenly, there was a big burst of light, and a bunch of dirt flew up in his not-face. Then he was just standing there, back in his room again. No more spooky tunnel. No more watches or awesome-looking cyborgs, either. Just Bones and Spock, lounging on Andrew’s freshly cleaned bedsheets, licking each others' furry little butts.

Something was definitely wrong here.